Sick Day
by ChocolateandRedBull
Summary: Collection of sick!fics for mainly Stiles, because I relate to him so he must suffer
1. Chapter 1

**Just had to get this out of my head so now hopefully I can get some actual work done. Don't forget to fav and review!**

Something was wrong.

Scott couldn't put his finger on it, but something was different, off, about the class. It seemed like something was missing. He frowned as he turned the page of his geography book, trying and failing to follow along with the rest of the class.

It wasn't until he heard a phone buzz that it hit him.

There was no constant hum of Stiles and Isaac bickering from either side of him. It was quiet. _Too_ quiet for his liking.

He looked over to Stiles, who was sat sideways in his chair, book open in his lap, leaning against the wall. Stiles' eyes were tired, face pale and head resting against the wall.

Scott turned again to look at Isaac, who was curled around his book, head resting on his arm. From what he could see, Isaac was just as pale and tired as Stiles was.

Scott sniffed quietly, tracking both of his friend's scents before wincing at the stink of sickness from both of them.

'They probably caught it from each other.' Scott thought.

The Sheriff had been out of town for the past week on a court case, and by the looks of it he wouldn't be home any time soon. Stiles had been staying with Scott and Isaac. Stiles had been staying with Scott and Isaac. Stiles told them it was for the company but Scott had a feeling that he had just lost his keys instead.

Scott was dragged away from his thoughts by Isaac shifting uncomfortably in his seat, wrapping an arms around his stomach and swallowing harshly. Scott could have sworn that he heard his stomach gurgle.

"Mr. Stilinski. Next paragraph."

Stiles' eyes shot open and Scott could have sworn that he was going to get sick there and then. But thankfully he pulled himself back cleared his throat.

" _Iceland is a volcanic island that sits on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge..."_

Stiles' voice was rough and hoarse. He was constantly interrupting himself with a swallow or a deep breath. When Stiles finished, his eyes slid shut and he rested his head against the wall, an arm snaking around his abdomen.

Scott was just about to ask him if was okay when Isaac's heart rate sped up and his stomach gurgled warningly.

"Isaac," Scott said under his breath, knowing that Isaac would hear him. "Do you need to leave?" Scott watched as Isaac froze, trying to keep the contents of his stomach inside of him long enough to reply. Isaac gave up on trying to speak while his stomach flipped and he gave a small nod.

Scott stood up quickly, chair scraping against the linoleum catching the attention of the class, including Stiles, whose eyes opened tiredly to look at his best friend.

"Mr McCall?" their teacher asked.

"Mr Matthews, I have to take Isaac to the nurse," Scott paused, "And Stiles too."

Stiles looked up at him through his sweaty fringe.

"What? No, I'm fine." Stiles said unconvincingly. Scott rolled his eyes.

"Oh yeah? What did we have for dinner last night?" Scott smirked, watching him turn green at the thoughts of the Chinese food he had devoured.

"Yeah, okay, let's go to the nurse," he said, swallowing thickly.

Scott put his arms around Isaac's shoulders and gently but firmly hauled him upwards, not wanting to jar his stomach. Stiles followed slowly as Scott led Isaac from the classroom.

Once in the hallway, Isaac's hand slid up to cover his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. "Isaac? Isaac, do you need to go to the bathroom? Or can you make it to the nurse's office? Isaac jerked forward as his stomach cramped painfully. "Isaac, talk to me, man, bathroom or nurse?"

"Bathroom," Isaac mumbled, voice muffled behind his hand. Scott winced at the amount of heat radiating from him as he placed his hands on his shoulders and directed him towards the bathroom.

Once through the bathroom door, Isaac stopped as vomit spilled from between his fingers, splashing onto the tiled floor. Isaac moaned as his stomach cramped in warning Scott quickly pushed him into a stall before he was sick again.

Scott was almost afraid to turn around and face Stiles, knowing what vomit did to him on a good day. Stiles was leaning against a sink, staring at his own reflection, breathing shallowly. Scott knew he was trying not to listen to the retches of the boy in the stall.

"Do you want me to take you to the nurse now? Or can you wait for Isaac?" Scott asked quietly, knowing that Stiles wouldn't make it to the nurse's office.

"I can wait..." Stiles said, wincing as Isaac continued to be sick behind them. "I'm fi-" he cut himself off with a gag. Both boys froze, knowing what was to come but each praying it wouldn't.

"Don't fight it," Scott said quietly, "Just get it over with and we can take you both home."

Stiles stood, frozen in the quiet room until Isaac retched again and Stiles bolted for the stall next to him. Scott sighed as he locked the door and pulled out his phone to call his mom.

Scott looked into the rear view mirror at his two best friends sleeping against the windows. Melissa rolled the windows down as the smell of vomit began to stink up the car. She really should have made Isaac take off that hoodie before he got into the car.

When Melissa pulled into their driveway, Isaac quickly scrambled from the backseat to the front door. Scott watched as the light in the bathroom was switched on moments later.

"I'll get him," Melissa said, switching off the engine. "You get Stiles."

Scott turned around and saw that Stiles was still asleep, head resting against the window of the car, looking as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Scott frowned. With Stiles you could never be sure.

Scott opened the opposite door to the sleeping boy and quickly but gently lifted him from the car. Thank god for werewolf strength. Scott carried his best friend inside and gently lay him on one of the large sofas in the living room. He smiled softly when Stiles' eyes fluttered open.

"Scott?" he mumbled, his eyes quickly sliding shut one more as he moved to find a comfortable position.

"Yeah, buddy?" Scott called softly, dragging the large blanket from the back of the couch down to tuck around him.

"Scott... I don't feel too good." Stiles mumbled into the couch cushions.

Scott smirked. "I know buddy, try and get some sleep."

* * *

Having two sick teenage boys in your living room was not fun, Scott had decided. They both felt the need to do everything at the same time. When Stiles woke up, Isaac woke up, when Isaac was sick, Stiles was sick. This continued for two days. The only peace Scott got was when they were both asleep, however, that was when he had to do homework or cook or clean. So, long story short, Scott was exhausted.

When Isaac came back from the bathroom for only the second time that day, Scott felt like both boys could do with some nourishment that wasn't endless bottles of water and dry toast. He quickly put some soup on the cooker and made his way into the living room.

"Guys, get up and get dressed, dinner is in 15 minutes," Scott called, pulling the curtains open. He was immediately greeted by two loud groans.

"Come on, guys, you need something in your stomachs, even if you are just going to throw it up again." Scott finished his sentence by pulling the blankets off of both pyjama-clad boys.

"No, Scott," Stiles whined. "We don't feel good," he mumbled, curling in on himself.

Isaac shivered as Scott opened the window, trying to lose the smell of vomit from the room.

"I know you guys feel like hell, but you're not going to get better sitting in here, wearing the same stinking pyjamas and wallowing in your own self pity." Scott said standing between both boys.

"It's not self pity," Stiles mumbled. "I'm pitying Isaac and he's pitying me."

Scott sighed. "Is that right, Isaac?"

Isaac nodded through chattering teeth.

"I see." Scott smirked. "If you two aren't up, dressed and in the kitchen in 15 minutes or less, I'm getting the water bucket!

Stiles scoffed. "You wouldn't."

Scott raised an eyebrow.

* * *

Both Isaac and Stiles sat at the kitchen table in fresh clothes, pulling their wet hair from their eyes as Scott ladled soup into three bowls.

"Now isn't this nice?" Scott grinned, laughing as the shivering teenagers glared at him


	2. Chapter 2

"D-Daddy?"

Noah Stilinski looked up from the television to see his nine year old son standing in the doorway, pale faced and clad in Spiderman pyjamas.

"Mischief? Come here," Noah said, opening his arms and gesturing for his son to cross the room. "Kiddo, you should be asleep it's almost 10:30." He pulled his son onto his lap, taking note of how he quickly buried himself into his father's shirt.

"I-I-I don't f-feel good..." Stiles mumbled. Noah inwardly winced at his sons' stammer, despite having heard it hundreds of times a day since his wife had passed.

He immediately placed a hand on his forehead, pressing a kiss to his son's hairline. "You're a little warm, buddy."

Stiles whined quietly as he tried to bury himself into his father's chest even more. "Talk to me, Mischief, tell me what hurts."

"M-My tummy," he said quietly, small fingers curling around the collar of his father's shirt. Noah's hand instinctively moved towards his son's rounded stomach, wincing as it gurgled beneath his palm. "You think you're gonna be sick, buddy?"

Stiles shook his head, "N-No, b-but..."

Noah waited for him to finish, but Stiles didn't continue. "What's the problem, buddy? You can tell me, I won't be mad."

"Um, m-my, um..." Stiles was looking at his hands, "my poop. I-It's all w-watery."

Noah pulled his son into a hug.

"Oh, buddy, that's okay, you're going to be fine! We'll get you some fever reducer, put you to bed and you'll be right as rain tomorrow."

"B-But my tummy hurts," he whined as he squirmed in his father's lap. Noah set him down on the couch, turned on 'The Thundermans', (Stiles' favourite TV show) and told him he'd be right back, he just had to make a phone call.

He quickly made his way to the hallway, pulling his phone from his pocket and searching for the number he wanted.

" _I'll be right there, baby!_ " he heard from the other end of the phone. " _Noah? Is everything okay?_ "

"Diarrhoea cure for a nine year old?" he asked, sensing the tone of urgency.

" _Oh, god, Stiles has it too?_ " she said with a sigh. Noah sighed as he glanced into the living room at his pale son, watching the TV with hooded eyes, a thumb curled in his mouth. He quickly looked away from his son, instead concentrating on the voice on the other end of the phone.

" _Scott's been in the bathroom all night. If he's not on the toilet, he's kneeling in front of it._ "

"Scott's been throwing up? Stiles hasn't-" he cut himself off when he heard the short coughs coming from the living room.

"Never mind, there he goes..." Noah said, sounding defeated. "Any miracle cures?" he asked, quickly, wanting to get back to his small son.

" _Yeah, I'll be there in a second, Scott! Rafael, will you please go and check on him while I'm on the damn phone!_ " Noah pretended not to hear the shouting between the married couple.

" _Um, sorry about that, Noah, uh, just fever reducer and something to settle his stomach if he can keep it down. A good night's sleep should fix them both right up,_ " Melissa said quickly. " _I'll let you go, call me if there's any problem._ "

Melissa was gone before he could even say thank you.

Noah shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned the corner into the living room. He quickly made his way over to his son who was lying on the couch, eyes squeezed shut and breathing hard, a small pool of vomit on the hardwood floor in front of him. Noah pulled his son upwards and hugged him close as the boy buried his head into the crook of his father's neck.

"You're gonna be okay, buddy, I'm gonna make you feel better," he murmured, heading towards the stairs. "You feel like you're going to be sick again?"

Stiles shook his head. "I-I-I need t-to poop."

Noah climbed the stairs even faster. He carried his son into the bathroom and set him down, pulling down his pyjama pants and taking note that the boy had forgotten to wear underwear again. He put his hands underneath his son's armpits and sat him down on the toilet, noting how little time passed between the time he sat down and the time he heard his son's sickness hit the toilet water.

"G-Go a-away, D-Daddy," he said, not meeting his father's eyes. Noah quickly turned towards the door. "I'm gonna go and get you some medicine, okay, buddy? Call me if you need something."

Stiles didn't answer, instead he just stared into his lap, hiccupping quietly.

Noah descended the stairs as fast as he could. He went to the medicine cabinet and grabbed the stuff he needed from the bottom shelf, the 'Stiles Shelf'. The shelf full of pill bottles, old and new. The prescription of Adderal that he had refilled yesterday, the old bottle of antibiotics from when he had gotten blood poisoning from continually pulling the scab from his knee last year, the prescription shampoo for the psoriasis on his hairline.

All of this medication made up his nine year old son, his baby boy. He knew that soon there would be more bottles, more tubes, more cures. But he knew that nothing could cure the grief that that boy felt, that he feels, will always feel. He knew he couldn't help his son not miss his mother. Wouldn't want to, to be perfectly honest. Wouldn't want him to forget his mother. He couldn't help him feel better emotionally, but he could let him know that he wasn't alone. That even though his mother isn't here anymore, he still has someone to take care of him.

He grabbed the bottles he needed and walked into his bedroom, pulling the hot water bottle from the bed and moving to the kitchen to heat it up.

When he had gathered everything he needed, he headed back up the stairs. He knocked on the bathroom door, "You done, buddy?" he called. There was a pause. "Uh-huh..."

"Well, uh, make sure you wipe properly. I'll wait in your room."

He heard Stiles moving around behind the door as he made his towards his son's room. He pulled out fresh pyjamas from his drawer and grabbed some underwear from the closet. As he sat down to wait for his son, Stiles shuffled into his room, wiping his damp hands on his shirt.

Stiles made his way towards his dad, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face into his neck. Noah rubbed his small son's back before pulling away and dragging his shirt upwards. "Let's get you out of these pyjamas, buddy, then we can go to the bed." Stiles stood, shivering on the wooden floor as his dad stripped him of his sweaty pyjamas and into new ones.

Noah grabbed his son and gently placed him into his bed, watching as he winced as he sat down. "How're feeling, kiddo?" he asked, pouring the medicine into the small cup for him. "M-M-My tummy hurts," he said quietly.

"Well, let's get you feeling better, then," he said, handing the cup to the boy, watching as he immediately downed it. "I brought the bucket, in case you feel sick, and the hot water bottle to help your tummy. You want me to lay with you?"

Stiles gave a small nod as he lay down, moving over so his Dad could lay beside him. As soon as Noah settled, Stiles burrowed into his side, pressing his forehead into his father's ribcage, a tell-tale sign of a sick Stiles. Noah wrapped his arm around his boy, making sure he knew he was there.

* * *

Noah opened his eyes to feel an uncomfortable heat on his hip bone. His hand instinctively moved down and he quickly made contact with his son's sweat-drenched pyjama shirt. Noah pulled his son away from him and noticed how much paler he had gotten in the three hours he'd been asleep.

Noah moved slowly, carefully, and gently pulled the shirt over his son's head and threw it in the direction of the hamper, he then pulled his son's pyjama pants down, leaving him in just his underwear.

Stiles whimpered before latching onto his father's shirt again. Noah sighed as he wrapped his arm around his boy once again, praying that he would be feeling better by the morning.

* * *

The next time Noah woke up he felt a light tapping on his shoulder.

"Nngh... Stiles? What's the matter, kiddo?"

"D-Daddy, m-my tummy..." he stammered, breathing deeply, a hand curled in his father's shirt.

"You think you're going to be sick?" Noah asked, rubbing his child's back.

"Hnnn... I don't know, i-it feels weird," the boy whined.

Noah pulled the bucket from the floor towards his son. He gently pushed the boy so he was leaning over it and continued to rub his back.

"Just relax, buddy, relax and you'll be okay, Daddy's here..." he shushed as his son trembled beneath him.

Stiles whined, panicked, before his stomach lurched and vomit poured from his mouth. Stiles knelt on his bed, shaking in his small underwear as his father rubbed his sweaty back, waiting for his stomach to settle.

Stiles was sick three more times before he sat back against the wall and curled around himself.

Noah brought the bucket into the bathroom and cleaned it out, grabbing a damp towel and moving back towards the bedroom.

"You okay, buddy?" Noah said gently, pulling his son towards him and wiping his face. He then dressed him in a different pair of pyjamas and let his son lay down again.

"Uh-huh..." Stiles mumbled, eyes closing. Noah lay down beside his son and allowed him to bury into him again, noticing how it wasn't as desperate as it was earlier, how Stiles wasn't as warm as he had been, how he was going to be okay.

When Noah opened his eyes again, it was bright outside and he noticed that Stiles wasn't pressed against him, instead he was sat beside him, leaning against the wall and reading a book.

"How're you feeling, buddy?" Noah asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Okay, I think..." he said slowly, turning his attention back to his book.

Noah couldn't help but smile at the lack of stammer.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek knew that something was wrong the second he walked through the door to the loft.

He dropped his bag and stuck his head around the corner to the living room, noting its distinct lack of Stiles. He looked up towards the top of the metal staircase to find the door to the bedroom closed and was soon fairly sure what was wrong.

He slowly made his way up the stairs, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the banister before slowly pushing the door to the dark room open.

"You asleep?" he asked quietly, taking note of the laptop on the bedside table playing a quiet, soothing song.

Stiles himself lay on his stomach, arms folded underneath his forehead with a large heating pack across his shoulders. Derek also took note of the wrist supports on both wrists and was fairly certain that if he were to check, both ankles would be bound in white elastic as well. He knew from both the sound of water shifting and from experience that there was a hot water bottle lain across his lower back. He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the overpowering smell of the prescribed muscle rub throughout the warm room.

Derek had known that Stiles had had arthritis for a while now, known that it was never more than a slight pain, usually remedied with elastic supports and a hot shower. Derek had become used to seeing Stiles wearing the over-the-counter wrist and ankle protectors, not bothering to comment because they would be gone in a couple of days.

However there would be times when he would get flair ups so bad that the teen, with an abnormally high pain tolerance as it was, would be incapacitated for up to 24 hours at a time, trying to sleep it off while simultaneously being kept awake by the stabbing pain through his joints.

Derek knew that the only way to get through this was to keep Stiles relaxed and hydrated, knowing that the neck pain always gave him headaches.

Stiles never wanted Derek to take his pain away, not because he didn't want Derek to have to feel it, but because it was a temporary solution and the pain was always so much worse when it returned.

Derek tried not to think about how there wasn't a moment in the day when Stiles wasn't in some sort of pain.

Stiles mumbled as Derek entered the room and although Derek didn't understand what he had said, he knew it was concerning the light from the doorway.

Derek quickly shut the door and crossed the room to the bed. "How long?" he asked, pressing a light kiss to his boyfriend's head.

"Couple of hours," Stiles mumbled, "shower didn't work, painkillers didn't work, muscle rub not working." Stiles was talking to his pillow, unable to move his neck without a jolt of pain. Derek frowned at the deep, even breaths Stiles took as he talked, trying to focus on his words rather than the pain.

Derek quickly rolled up his shirt sleeves and grabbed the muscle rub from the bedside table. He gently pulled the now lukewarm heating pack from Stiles' shoulders and started to lightly massage Stiles' upper back, taking note of how tense his whole body was.

Derek didn't say anything as he continued the same soothing motion over and over until, with the help of the warm bedroom and the soothing music being emitted from the laptop, Stiles' shoulders loosened and his breathing evened out, until Derek could hear him snoring softly.

Derek wiped his hands on a towel beside the bed and slowly lay down beside him, praying that when he woke up, at least some of the pain would be gone.

* * *

The next time Derek woke up, he found Stiles on his elbows and knees, breathing deeply. Derek watched as Stiles' eyes were screwed shut and his head was buried into the crook of his elbow. He took note of how he was constantly shifting, trying to find a position that wasn't painful, his body tense and chest heaving.

"Shhh, Stiles, just relax. Relax and you'll be okay," Derek whispered, wanting desperately to hold him but knew that it would only cause the boy more pain.

Stiles released some sort of half grunt/half sob before a thin stream of vomit fell from his lips, landing with a small splash on the sheets in front of him.

Derek knew not to touch him now, as much as his wolf was screaming _comfort him._ Derek knew that it wasn't unusual for Stiles to get sick from the sheer pain, but it never got any easier to see him this way.

"Are you done?" Derek asked, voice low, frowning as Stiles' body twitched, muscles rock hard.

Stiles' hand moved towards his mouth as he shook his head. He forced out a sickly belch before quickly pulling his wrist support off and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Stiles grunted despairingly before he retched again.

Derek quickly jumped from the bed and ran around to the other side as he helped Stiles sit back slowly, wincing as his joints popped and crackled. "Let's get you into the shower while I clean this up," he said quietly. Stiles slowly stood up as he rolled his shoulders, breathing deeply.

Derek knew what to do as he left Stiles sitting there. He quickly made his way towards the bathroom where he turned on the hot water and pulled the small metal stool from the corner and placed it under the stream, knowing that he wouldn't be able to stand up for too long.

Derek quickly made his way back to the bedroom where Stiles was still in the same position he had left him in, except for the small pool of vomit at his feet from when he tried to stand up himself. Derek quietly apologized as he swiftly picked him up, wincing as he cried out.

Derek walked quickly, wanting to get him into the shower as quickly as he could. He set Stiles into the cubicle and let him hold onto his arm while he slowly lowered himself down onto the stool.

"I'll be back soon, baby, I'm just going to fix the bed," Derek said, closing the shower door.

Stiles just breathed deeply and evenly as he sat, letting the hot water sooth his sore muscles.

Derek moved back to the bedroom where he swiftly cleaned up the vomit and changed the sheets. He then made his way downstairs where he reheated the heating pack and hot water bottle and placed them in the bedroom. Derek knocked on the bathroom door.

"Stiles? You nearly done?" Derek received a small grunt in reply. He pushed the door open to find Stiles sitting on the small stool in the shower, rubbing his shoulders with his sore hands. Derek pulled the shower door back before he pulled his shirt off and grabbed the soap, pouring some into his hands before he slowly rubbed his boyfriend's shoulder blades, just willing the pain away so he could finally get some rest.

Stiles didn't move until the water began to turn cold and Derek had massaged every joint in his body. "I'm okay, I can go back to bed now," Stiles muttered. "You sure?" Derek asked, stepping back to grab a towel. Stiles gave a small nod as he grabbed onto the door and slowly stood up. Derek walked alongside him as he made his way back to the bedroom. Stiles gently sat down on bed and promptly curled up in a ball. Derek positioned the heating pack and hot water bottle around his shoulders and back.

Derek pressed a small kiss to his boyfriend's hairline. "Feel better, baby."

* * *

The next time Derek woke up, he frowned at the empty space beside him. He listened for sounds of movement throughout the loft and relaxed when he heard the toaster pop in the kitchen.

Derek crawled out of bed and dragged on some sweatpants before descending the stairs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a yawn.

Stiles sat hunched over the kitchen island, wrists and ankles still wrapped in white elastic, chewing idly on a piece of toast and reading the paper, Isaac sat across from him.

Derek blinked at the other teenager.

"What?" Isaac mumbled through a mouthful of toast.

"Nothing... I just- when did you get here?"

Isaac frowned.

"I've literally been here since you got home yesterday, you just went straight upstairs and I know not to disturb you when Stiles gets bad so I left you to it."

Stiles chuckled at Derek's confused face. "You'd make a shit guard dog, sourwolf."

Derek growled mock angrily, which made Isaac's eyes glow gold in response, something Derek knew that Stiles loved.

"How're you feeling now, babe?" Derek muttered as he kissed Stiles' temple.

"It still hurts but I can function at least," Stiles said, nuzzling into him. "Thanks for taking care of me."


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, how're you feeling?" Scott asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe of his bathroom watching the sorry sight in front of him.

Stiles responded with a mouthful of vomit being launched into the toilet bowl followed by a wet cough.

"That bad, huh?"

"I feel like my insides are dissolving," Stiles muttered, before forcing out a sickly belch.

Scott smirked at his friend's dramatics. "It's the stomach flu, Stiles, not 'The Plague', and besides, you can go home today, your Dad texted and said he would be home around eight."

Stiles mumbled and his eyes slid shut as he rested his head on the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.

Scott sighed, "Come on, let's get you into the shower and then we can go back to your house and watch movies," he said, grabbing his best friend's shoulders and hauling him upwards. Stiles did his best not to gag as Scott turned on the shower and pulled the sick boy's clothes off.

Scott winced when, as soon as he shut the shower curtain, Stiles was on his knees, puking vaguely in the direction of the drain.

Scott reached his hand in and turned the showerhead to rinse the vomit away as much as possible. He smiled sadly as he heard a quiet 'thanks'.

* * *

Scott looked up to see Stiles standing in his doorway, paler than ever and shaking despite the large hoodie and sweatpants wrapped around him. "I, uh, I wouldn't go in there for a while," Stiles muttered, not meeting Scott's eyes.

Scott quickly stood up and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, directing him towards the stairs and into the living room. "Don't worry about it, buddy, let's go downstairs."

Stiles gingerly sat down onto the sofa, pulling his sleeves down over his hands.

Scott placed the mop bucket beside him before handing him a large cup of tea.

"Drink that and I can take you home," he ordered, Stiles looked tiredly at the cup in his hands, but knew that if he drank it he could go home and sleep. He tentatively took a sip, relishing in the warmth it gave him.

* * *

After Stiles had carefully drank two cups of tea, Scott wrapped him in his biggest coat and strapped him into the Jeep, bucket in his lap should the need arise.

Scott drove carefully, keeping in mind that this Jeep was everything to Stiles and also if he hit a corner too hard, Stiles would lose the contents of his stomach.

Scott glanced over at Stiles, who had his head hanging over the bucket. "You gonna throw up?" Scott asked quietly.

Stiles shook his head 'no' before the wet splat of vomit hitting the inside of the bucket filled the Jeep.

"Wait here," Scott said, pulling into Stiles' driveway. "I'll be back," he said, before jumping from the Jeep and heading inside.

* * *

When Scott returned, Stiles was still sat in the same position, the bucket considerably fuller. Scott watched as Stiles dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, barely removing any of the remnants of vomit and saliva from his chin, "I need the bathroom," he said quietly, "like, now."

Scott winced as he realised what Stiles meant and he took the bucket from him as he clambered towards the bathroom. Scott tried not to think about what was happening to him in there.

Stiles emerged ten minutes later, looking considerably paler. Scott jumped up and wrapped his arm around Stiles' shoulders and led him to the sofa, where he immediately lay down, hand resting gingerly on his stomach.

"I've put on some soup, it should be ready in about ten minutes. The fire is lit, so it should start to get warmer in here soon, and your Dad called, he'll be home in about two hours.

Stiles smiled at his best friend, "Thanks, man,"

Scott smirked, "Anytime, buddy, now I'm gonna go put on movie, any preferences?"

* * *

Sheriff Noah Stilinski dropped his bag at the door and smiled at the sound of the 'Fresh Prince of Bel Air' theme song coming from the living room, a tell tale sign of a sick Stiles. He rounded the corner and smirked at the sight. Scott was curled up in the armchair in the corner, half asleep as he blinked lazily at the TV. Stiles lay across the sofa, hand resting lightly on his upset stomach, mouth open as he slept.

Scott looked up when he saw the Sheriff enter.

"Hey, Scott, how's he holding up?" Noah asked quietly, putting a hand on his son's forehead, taking note of the thin layer of sweat covering his body.

"Good, I think, he's kept down a bowl of soup for the last couple of hours, and I think his fever has finally broken. He should be fine within a couple of days."

Noah smiled. He really was his mother's son.


	5. Chapter 5

**I know this is uploaded seperately on my profile, but I thought it might just be easier to put it here too. Let me know what you think!**

Sheriff Noah Stilinski knocked loudly on his son's door, knowing that it could take a hurricane to wake the sleeping teenager some mornings. He quickly pushed the door open. "Come on, kid, get your butt to school."

He frowned when there was a quiet murmur from the bed, knowing that Stiles had a tendency to grunt loudly or even just yell at being woken up.

"Stiles?" Noah asked, "Come on, buddy, it's time for school."

There was a small hum from the bundle on the bed, followed by an incoherent mumble.

"What was that?" he asked, checking his watch.

"I'm coming," came a hoarse voice, "Just getting up now..." Stiles murmured, rolling over.

"You feeling alright, Stiles?" his father questioned, crossing the room to his son's bed. "You're looking a bit pale..." Noah placed a hand on the teenager's forehead before sighing. "You're burning up... maybe you should stay home today."

"No, I'm fine," his son mumbled, yet to open his eyes. "Gotta go to school... gotta - gotta meet... S'iles..."

Noah rolled his eyes. "Okay, you're definitely staying home."

Stiles pushed himself to sit up, blinking in the low light of the room. "No, Dad," he slurred, "I gotta go to school, I'll be oka-"

He froze.

"Stiles?" his father asked, cautiously.

Stiles looked up at his father with an apologetic look before gagging harshly and retching into his own open hands.

Noah patiently waited until he was finished before quickly pulling the duvet and sheets from the bed, waiting for Stiles to hand him the soiled pyjama pants from where the vomit had dripped through. He quickly shoved them into the hamper before Stiles could see them. He turned to see his son shivering on the bed in just his boxers, vomit dripping down his chest and couldn't help but have a flashback to a nine-year-old Stiles, the first time he'd gotten sick after his mother had passed. Noah hadn't known how to handle it then but thank god he'd learned a thing or two in the last 6 years.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you into some fresh pyjamas," Stiles looked up from his lap and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "But you gotta go to work," Stiles said, shivering helplessly before releasing a quiet, sickly belch into his fist. His father wiped the vomit from his chest with a towel and handed him a t-shirt and a new set of pyjama pants.

"I know, but not before I get you cleaned up and back to bed," he said, wiping his son's face and hands clean with a towel. He couldn't help but see the small child who had slept in his father's bed between the ages of 8 and 11, partly for him and partly for his father, standing before him, squirming as the cloth wiped the sweat from his face.

"Go and jump into my bed, I'll get you some water and a bucket," Noah said, as he watched his son brush his teeth.

When he returned, he found Stiles curled up on his mother's side of the bed, hugging the pillow close to him. Noah knew that being sick always made the teenager miss his mother even more.

He placed the bucket on the floor beside the shaking teenager. "That's there if you need it, buddy, and don't forget to drink your water. I'll be back on my break."

Stiles just buried himself even deeper into the large bed.

* * *

"Stiles?" The Sheriff called as he opened the front door. "You awake?"

There was a thud from upstairs and a low moan. Noah quickly made his way up the stairs and threw open the door to find his son and the duvet in a pile on the floor. "Hey, kid, what're you doing down there?" he asked, crouching beside him and feeling his forehead, wincing at the heat.

"Had to puke..." his son panted, "...fell out when I leaned over," the teenager coughed.

"Why didn't you just pick up the bucket?" Noah quizzed.

"I tried... too heavy..."

Noah frowned and peered into the small bucket to find a rather substantial amount of vomit in it. "Jesus, Stiles..."

Stiles peered solemnly up at his father, face covered in sweat before swallowing harshly.

"Come on," Noah said, holding out his hand to his son. "This room stinks of vomit, we'll put you on the couch and you can watch TV."

Stiles didn't respond, instead allowing himself to be led downstairs and flopping onto the couch, curling in on himself as his father draped the duvet over him.

"You want anything to eat?" the Sheriff asked, chuckling when a loud groan was emitted from the lump on the sofa.

Noah placed the bucket beside the couch, now smelling of disinfectant rather than vomit and replaced the glass of water with a fresh one.

"I gotta get back to work, but call me if you need me and I'll get someone else to cover for me."

Stiles just hummed before rolling over and burying himself into the back of the couch.

* * *

"Stiles? Stiles, you awake? Come on, Stiles, wake up."

Stiles moaned softly before peering out of the small gap in the duvet. "Scott?"

"Hey, buddy, how're feeling?" Scott asked, softly.

"Can't talk. Dead." Stiles groaned, before rolling over to face the back of the couch.

"Come on, Stiles, your Dad texted me and asked me to make you some soup and keep you company. So put in a movie while I attempt to not burn down your house," Scott said, tugging at the duvet.

Stiles moaned but turned over to face the TV, unsure of what he was watching anymore.

"Fine, but we're watching 'The Judge' because it's already in the DVD player and I'm not getting up to change it."

"That's fine with me," Scott said with a chuckle.

* * *

After four hours of movie-watching, eating, puking, a change of clothes and more eating, Stiles was back where he had started in his own bed, which Scott had remade when Stiles' back began to hurt from the lumpy couch.

Scott sat at Stiles' desk, attempting his homework while his best friend snored softly from across the room.

Scott sat up and stretched as he heard the Sheriff return from work and went to meet him.

"Hey, Scott, how's he holding up?" Noah asked, shedding his jacket.

"He's doing okay, I think," Scott nodded, "he's sleeping now, but he stayed awake for a movie and a half and we got half a bowl of soup into him before he threw up, but he's kept the other half down so far so I think that's a good sign."

Noah nodded, "Thanks, Scott, I really appreciate it. Do you need a ride home? Or are you gonna stay?"

"I think I'll stay with him for a while, at least until I finish my homework," Scott said, turning towards the bedroom. "My mom'll be driving by here on her way home from work in about an hour so I'll get a ride with her. Oh, and I remade your bed by the way, Stiles kinda sweated through your sheets."

Noah marvelled at the young man before him, unsure of when he changed from the asthmatic, mousey boy into the man he sees now.

"Thanks, son. You need anything to eat?" Noah asked, looking for a way to repay him.

"Nah, I knew Stiles wouldn't want much so I ate before I came, but thanks though," Scott said, returning to the bedroom.

Noah turned to make his way back downstairs, trying not to think of the two crying boys huddled together in the graveyard all those years ago.


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, so I've been doing exams and have't had time to write, so here is a one-shot that I wrote for Torchwood [one of my very first ones, I might add] and I've simply edited it, so sorry if there's any mistakes. ALSO I've accepted my very first prompt and although I've not completely finished it yet, if anyone has anything they'd like me to try then just PM me!**

"Not tonight, Derek," Stiles muttered as he climbed into bed and promptly curled up in a ball, facing away from him. Derek frowned. "You okay?" he asked, wrapping his arms around his lover, and kissing the back of his head. "I'm fine, Derek. Just a stomach ache."

Derek hummed sympathetically. "Do you feel like you're gonna throw up?" Stiles shook his head. "No, it just _fucking hurts_ ," he hissed. Derek knew he must be in pretty severe pain when he heard Stiles swear, something he would usually scold Derek for doing. "Okay, I'll leave you be for tonight, but you owe me tomorrow," he joked.

Stiles didn't respond.

* * *

Stiles jolted awake when Derek's alarm went off and he felt a pang of guilt at not meeting him with his morning coffee like he usually did. Derek fumbled with the clock until he got the shrill alarm to cut out and he rolled over and put his arms around Stiles, "How're you feeling now, baby?" he murmured into Stiles' hair. Stiles' eyes were screwed shut as he shook his head. Derek rubbed his bicep soothingly, "Okay, you stay here, we can certainly manage without you for now-"

"But-" Stiles protested.

"No 'buts,' you stay here, feel better, and I'll check in on you around lunch," Derek said, pulling on his clothes. Stiles sighed and rolled over, wrapping his arms around his stomach and closing his eyes. Derek bent over and kissed his head. "I'll talk to you later," he murmured as he descended the stairs to the living room.

Stiles didn't respond.

* * *

Derek sat at the head of the table surrounded by his Pack, keeping an ear out so he could hear Stiles' quiet snores. Derek stopped when he heard Stiles cough and splutter, and frowned when he noticed it didn't stop. "Is he okay?" Scott said quietly into Derek's ear as Stiles continued to sound like he was trying to hack his lungs up. Derek stood up and made his way over to the metal staircase leading up to his bedroom, frustrated that he couldn't see him in the darkness of the room.

"Stiles? Are you okay?" Stiles continued to bark and retch, and Derek was beginning to get concerned at the small pauses between each wet cough, wondering what could cause it. As Derek began to climb up the stairs, he heard Stiles stop, and for a moment he was relieved, until he heard him retch. Derek quickly switched on the light and to his horror he found Stiles sitting up, not covered in vomit, but blood. Stiles coughed into his hands once more, both palms coming up coated in red and blood dripping from his lips. Derek froze as Stiles looked up at him with pain in his eyes, pale faced and sweating, before his eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped backwards, hitting himself on the headboard.

Seeing Stiles' lifeless form hit the bed made Derek burst into action. "Start the car!" he screamed, pulling Stiles into his arms, not caring about the blood staining his clothes, and carrying him down the stairs and towards the door where he met the Pack, "What the fuck did you do to him, Derek?" Jackson asked, astonished at the amount of blood covering the pair. "We have to get him to Deaton," Lydia ordered. Derek just stood, staring at his lover and watching the blood drip from the corner of his mouth. " _Now, Derek_ ," Peter growled, eyes glowing steel blue.

Derek jolted and hurried Stiles down to the car, not letting him go as Jackson drove them to the veterinarian's office. Derek quickly carried him into the back room and lay him on the table, eyes fixed on the blood steadily dripping from Stiles' mouth. "Derek, you have to leave, I can't work with you under my feet. I promise I'll call you as soon as I know what's going on." Derek looked torn, he knew he should leave him with Deaton, no matter how much his wolf was screaming _comfort him_. Scott's eyes flashed red as he pulled Derek away with a whimper.

* * *

"Derek, I'm sure he'll be fine, you shouldn't worry so much," Allison said, watching him pace back and forth in the front room. "I just- I just don't know what could have caused this. I mean- it was just a stomach ache. I thought it was just something he ate," Derek stammered, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. "Like, what if it was something to do with the Pack? If it is then it's my fault... and if he-" his voice catches, "-oh god, Allison, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if-" Allison crossed the room and sat down beside him, rubbing his arm sympathetically. "Derek, Deaton is a great doctor, if it does happen to be something to do with the supernatural, he'll be able to handle it."

Derek sighed, "I just hope you're right."

* * *

Stiles Stilinski winced as he caught himself on one of the fangs of the Omegas he was tying in place in the SUV. He licked his thumb and placed it on the small gash on his hip, wiping away the small trickle of blood.

"You okay back there, Stiles?" Lydia called from where she was wiping the CCTV. "Yeah, I'm fine," Stiles replied, ignoring the slight burn of the cut.

"I think this guy was infected with something, he certainly isn't healthy, I'll bring it to Deaton when we get back. So just be careful around it, okay?" Derek called, voice booming over the rain.

"Kay," Stiles called, already forgetting about the small gash on his hip.

The Omega was dead by the time they got back to the loft.

* * *

Lydia stood in the doorway and stared on in horror as Deaton struggled to hold Stiles upright and keep a bowl under his chin, into which Stiles was coughing blood. When Stiles stopped gagging and vomiting blood Deaton lowered him back down onto the table and Lydia realised that he hadn't even been awake.

"Is he okay?" she whispered. It was then that she finally took a look at the pair of them. Stiles lay unconscious on the cold metal table, still dressed in his blood-soaked undershirt and pyjama bottoms from the night before, blood splattered across his face and the table from coughing. Deaton was dressed in his bloodstained veterinarian's scrubs, sweat glistening on his face.

"I just- I don't know how this could have happened. I've never seen this in humans before," Deaton said, pulling off his rubber gloves.

"What is it doing to him?" she asked quietly.

Deaton wiped some blood from the corner of Stiles' red stained mouth. "It's embedded itself in his stomach lining. It's eating him from the inside out."

* * *

Derek sat in the waiting room, staring into space, white as a sheet. "Is there any chance?" he asked no one in particular.

"I've put him on antibiotics. We should know soon if it's working," Deaton said, still in doctor mode.

"And if it doesn't?

Allison interrupted him. "Don't talk like that, Derek. He'll be-"

She was interrupted by screaming coming from the back room. Stiles screaming. Derek winced as he heard the agonising screams of his mate. The screams of his lover lying in the next room writhing in agony.

"Can't you do anything for the pain?"

"He's on a steady stream of morphine, and he's allergic to penicillin, one dose of that could kill him, so I can't give him that. The lack of penicillin _will_ slow down the process but it should still work. There's nothing more I can do for him right now."

Derek sighed and tried to ignore the screams from his Pack mate.

* * *

Derek sat and held Stiles' hand. Deaton and Derek had moved the teenager into a spare room near Derek's when they realised there was nothing more they could do for him. Derek sat and held his hand as he screamed and writhed in pain, his face scrunched up in agony. He pulled his hands away when he tried to claw at the source of pain in his stomach. He changed his pyjamas when he sweated through them. He held him upright as blood was forced from his mouth and wiped his face afterwards.

* * *

"Derek, it's been two days, you need to go and get some sleep. There's nothing we can do for him right now. Just go, I'll stay with him. I'll take care of him. I promise," Deaton insisted.

Derek sighed. "Is he going to wake up?"

"He hasn't gotten worse, I'll give him that. He certainly wants to hold on."

"I don't need to be told that he's strong. I know that. I want to know if he's going to pull through this," Derek said, never taking his eyes off of Stiles.

Deaton sighed. "I don't know, Derek, I just don't know."

* * *

Eleven days later, as Derek sat holding his mate's hand, Deaton walked in, "Derek, we have to be realistic here, you can't spend all your time down here with him. It's not good for you."

Derek didn't look at the doctor. "I love him so much, Alan. And I never told him. How can I let him die without knowing that he's loved?"

"I think you should tell him that. Say what you want to say now. And if he wakes up you can tell him again, and if he- if he doesn't wake up, then you'll have told him, regardless of whether or not he heard you."

When Derek didn't respond, Deaton stood up, fixed Stiles' IV and left without saying another word.

* * *

Ten days later, as Scott made yet another cup of coffee, he heard screaming, but not the painful screaming the Pack had become somewhat accustomed to. This was happy, joyful screaming, emanating from Derek.

" _HE'S AWAKE! ALAN, COME HERE! HE'S AWAKE, OH GOD, HE'S AWAKE!"_

Scott abandoned his coffee and followed the Pack down to the room, where Stiles was lying with his eyes open, listening to Derek natter on about nonsense, hardly making sense at all, just so happy to see Stiles awake. Lydia smirked as she thought that if he had had a tail, it would be wagging excessively right now.

* * *

After a half hour of Stiles nearly falling asleep during conversations, Deaton recommended more rest and left, quickly followed by the rest of the Pack. Derek stayed behind and grabbed his hand. "Stiles, I just wanted to say, I-"

"I know, Derek," he whispered hoarsely, "I heard you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Don't forget to fav/review!**

Stiles winced as he landed in the dumpster on his back. He was completely used to it, but it was still embarrassing for him. No one even said anything anymore. Jackson and his cronies just picked him up and tossed him in. Not even Danny did anything, and that made him feel especially bad.

He thought they were friends.

Stiles pulled himself up and rubbed the back of his head. The dumpster was mostly empty, so he had to jump to get his leg over the edge to climb out. He let out a panicked gasp as he lost his balance and landed hard onto the pavement below.

He winced as he felt a sharp pain in his left hand. He grunted quietly while he tried to move each of his fingers, the index frozen in place.

"Are you okay?" Danny asked, appearing out of nowhere. "You kind of landed on your hand there."

"I'm fine," he mumbled, getting to his feet and brushing the dirt off of his plaid shirt. "Not like you care."

"I'm sorry," he apologized. He looked like he was going to say something else, but then stopped. "If you're hurt I can take you to the nurse. Are you – Are you sure you're okay?" Stiles nodded and tried to smile. His finger was starting to throb and he was scared for a second that it was broken, but he told himself that he was just being ridiculous, he only fell a couple of feet. Danny offered to walk him inside, but Stiles didn't want to be near him.

He should've done something in the first place.

Stiles didn't tell anyone about his finger, despite the fact that it seemed to be getting worse. His entire fingertip was bruised and continued to throb painfully. He told himself he would make it through the day without going to the nurse, but by the time lacrosse practice rolled around, he wasn't so sure. It was starting to hurt so bad that he was tempted to just leave or call his dad, but he couldn't skip practice, numbers were doing due to flu season so he had a better chance of playing. He sat in his usual spot on the bench, the first one there, and waited for practice to start.

Halfway through the walkthrough of the drill, Stiles winced as his finger twitched. _It's just your stupid finger, suck it up,_ he told himself _._ He couldn't even bend it, though, and it really was hurting.

He asked Coach if he could go to the bathroom, who sighed and told him to hurry up, but he went the opposite way, straight to the nurse's office. He stuck his head into her office before quickly stepping inside. She was typing away at her computer, but looked up at him as he came in.

"Hi, sweetie. Have a seat," she greeted cheerfully. He had never been to the nurse, but was surprised to learn that she actually seemed pretty nice. She swivelled around in her chair to face him. "What's bothering you, honey?"

"Um, I fell earlier, and my finger hurts, and I can't bend it," he explained, suddenly nervous while he held out his hand. She held it gently, turning it over and smiling sympathetically when he winced.

"You smashed it pretty good, I'd say. Can you move it at all?" she asked. He shook his head willing away the sudden tears that were threatening to fall.

"I-I've been trying all day. I can't bend it or do anything. I thought I just smashed it when I hit the ground, but then I-I couldn't move it, and I was at lacrosse practice just now and it really started to hurt, worse than it has all day, so I came here," he said quietly.

"I'll put some ice on it and give you some Tylenol. You can sit here for a little bit, and if it doesn't start feeling better soon I'll call your parents to take you to see a doctor." Stiles nodded and sat back as she got him an ice pack. He squeaked as she put pressure on it and swallowed some pain medicine when she left him alone.

After ten minutes, he was afraid someone would come looking for him since he hadn't returned to practice but that was the least of his worries. If the nurse called his dad he was going to have to come up with some story of how he hurt himself.

"How's it feeling?" the nurse asked him fifteen minutes.

"Still hurts. It's throbbing real bad," he told her, voice strained. She took the ice off and frowned.

"I think it'd be best if you saw a doctor, sweetie. I'll call your mom to have her come and pick you up."

Stiles frowned.

"No. My dad. My mom, uh, died," he explained, not looking her in the eye. She looked at him sympathetically, but didn't say anything as she opened her directory. Stiles put the ice pack back on his finger and leaned his head back, eyes sliding shut.

Twenty minutes later, his dad walked into the office. He spoke to the nurse for a moment before coming over to him.

"How'd you do this, buddy?" he asked him gently, taking his sons hand in his and looking at it.

"Don't touch it," he said, hissing in pain. "I fell and held my hands out to catch myself, but my finger was bent." That seemed like a good enough lie, and his dad seemed to buy it.

"Come on. We're gonna go to the doctor and get it looked at."

"The emergency room?" he panicked. He couldn't do the emergency room. He'd rather deal with the possible broken finger on his own.

"No! No, just the walk-in place a couple of miles from our house," the Sheriff said instantly, kicking himself for making his son so anxious. Once they left the nurses office, Stiles got his bag from his locker and walked to the police cruiser with his dad, not looking back at the yells coming from the lacrosse field behind them.

The ride to the doctor's office was mostly silent. He nursed his hand in his lap, eyes flitting over the Preserve on the other side of the window. He was afraid his dad was mad at him, but then again he wouldn't be driving him to the doctor's office if he were mad. Besides, it wasn't like he had fallen on purpose.

His dad signed him in at the clinic and they sat down in the waiting room together. His finger was so swollen it looked twice the size of the others, and it hurt to move it even the tiniest bit. He felt like he was overreacting about it, but just jamming his finger shouldn't hurt this badly.

Back in an exam room, the nurse took one look at his hand and sent him to get x-rays. They had to reposition his hand three times before they got a good one, and then sent him back to wait on a doctor.

"Stiles, did you really fall, or did someone push you?" his dad asked suddenly.

"What? No! I-I fell," he said, trying to keep his face blank. It wasn't a complete lie. He just didn't tell him how he fell.

Ten minutes later a doctor in a white coat came in and showed them the x-rays. The middle joint of his finger was broken, so they put a metal splint on it. Stiles' jaw dropped when he told him that he would have to wear it for three weeks. They had a game before then, he couldn't wear a stupid finger brace if he wanted to play. He didn't say anything, but he didn't know how he was supposed to make it that long.

His dad checked him out and took him home. He gave him an ice pack and some more Tylenol and left to go back to work. He lay down on the couch and switched on Star Wars, his number one comfort movie. If his mom were there then she would've taken the rest of the day off to keep him company. He wanted her back more than anything. It was nice having joined the lacrosse team, but no one there was really his friend, except for Scott of course but flu season combined with his asthma had him house bound. No one would text him to ask if he was okay, or probably even notice his finger the next day at school. Well, maybe Danny would. He actually seemed kind of nice, other than the fact he just stood around while Stiles was tossed into dumpsters.

Maybe Danny would turn out to be his friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Yeah this one kinda got away from me. In my defence, I wrote it in like two hours. By no means my best work but I'm sure I'll fix it at some point. Don't forget to fav and review!**

"Stiles, what's with the hoodie? It's like 70 degrees out," the Sheriff questioned from behind his coffee mug.

"I'm cold," he mumbled, pulling the hoodie tighter around him.

The Sheriff eyed him carefully, "You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah, I just- I'm not feeling too- um, I'm not feeling great," he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face.

The Sheriff grimaced, "You wanna stay home today?"

"No, I've got a good chance of playing in the game tonight, I'll be fine," Stiles said, deciding to skip out on breakfast as his stomach rolled.

The Sheriff mulled it over, "Well, I gotta go to the station, but if you need me then just call me and I'll be right there, okay? I'll- I'll find someone to cover."

The Sheriff knew that his boy really mustn't been feeling well when he simply nodded instead of arguing with him.

* * *

"Whoa, dude, are you okay? You're really not looking too good," Scott said as he watched Stiles walk towards him.

"Not feeling it either, man," Stiles grunted.

"You look like you're gonna pass out," Scott said, hand hovering towards his friend as he swayed.

Stiles took a deep breath, shivering. "I'm fine," he said, "I'm just- just _cold_." He wrapped an arm around his stomach, swallowing thickly as he found himself hovering near the bathroom for fear he might lose last night's dinner. Scott placed a hand on his friend's forehead, "Jesus, Stiles, that fever's getting pretty high…"

Stiles shrugged him off, pulling his zipper up to his chin, "I'll be okay, man, don't worry."

* * *

 _"Psst. Stiles!"_

Stiles looked up from where he was curled around himself in his seat. Scott gave him a pointed look. " _If you're really not feeling good then maybe you should go home,"_ he whispered.

Stiles took a deep breath to calm his stomach before replying. " _Half the lacrosse team is out sick, I've got a real good chance of playing tonight, my dad's coming to watch._ "

"McCall, Stilinski, something you'd like to share with the class?" Mr Matthews called.

"No, sir," Scott mumbled as Stiles put his head back down on his desk.

* * *

Stiles tried not to groan as his stomach lurched for the hundredth time that day. He was seriously beginning to consider giving up on the lacrosse game and going home to rest.

"Stilinski! You're in for Hudson!" he heard Coach yell from his spot on the sideline.

Stiles inwardly groaned. "What's wrong with Hudson?"

"What's wrong wi- He sucks! Get on the damn field," Coach yelled, despite being stood beside him. Stiles stifled a queasy belch before strapping his helmet to his head and picking up his lacrosse stick.

Scott watched as Stiles jogged onto the field towards him, grimacing at how bad he looked. "Stiles, you shouldn't be playing, man, you're really not looking too good," Scott said cautiously.

Stiles blinked the dizziness from his head and gripped his stick even tighter. "I-I'm fine, Scott," he said, swallowing harshly. "I'll just- I'll just stay away from the ball. Don't- Don't pass it to me and maybe Coach'll take me off."

"Stiles…" Scott said, frowning at the sweat already pooling around the teen's collar. "Are- Are you wearing two shirts?"

"Three," he said, rolling his shoulders.

* * *

Scott respected his friend's wishes and kept the ball and the action away from him. Stiles ran away from every tackle, pass and score he saw, calling "Just going long, Coach!" when yelled at. Stiles winced as the action moved to his corner of the field and quickly turned away from the advancing players. However, what he didn't account for was the 250 pound beast of a player on the opposing team running at him full force. Stiles' reactions weren't fast enough. He didn't have time to even think about changing direction before the guy collided with him.

Stiles grunted loudly as the guy's stick was pushed into his gut, causing his stomach to lurch dangerously. He ignored the sharp pain in his knee and gasped as his helmet covered head hit something hard and not the soft grass he had been expecting. He didn't have much time to think about the cracking sound of his bones before the guy fell on top of him, head colliding with head and his world went black.

* * *

A lot of things occurred to Stiles at once.

The throbbing pain in his right knee, the cold burning in the back of his head, the uncomfortable stabbing in the fingers on his left hand.

But he didn't care.

All he could think of was the lurch in his stomach as it gurgled beneath his shirt.

It then occurred to him that he was being carried. On a stretcher. He still couldn't find the strength to open his eyes but it was like all the sound came back to him at once.

There were voices. _Lots_ of voices. He was still on the lacrosse field. Or rather, he was being carried from the lacrosse field.

" _We need to get him to the hospital."_ His dad. " _Sheriff, you gotta calm down, we're gonna take good care of him."_ Melissa. " _That knee can't be gone, he'll be out for the rest of the damn year!"_ Coach.

Stiles tried to focus on something, anything, to get his stomach to stop churning before he felt the back of his tongue weigh down and his stomach seemed to slowly move upwards. He moaned drowsily before dragging his hands upwards to pull half-heartedly at the straps on his helmet, grunting as pain shot through his fingers at the movement.

"Stiles, Stiles! Kiddo, you gotta keep that helmet on until we can get it off safely," Stiles recognised Melissa's voice before he pulled at his helmet again, this time noticing his hand coming away coated in what felt like blood.

"Stiles, stop!" That was his dad, putting his hand on top of Stiles' to pull it down and help him relax. Stiles tried to shake his head as his throat tightened even more and he moved to sit up.

"Whoa, woah! Stiles, relax buddy, we're gonna get you help," he couldn't distinguish between the voices anymore, the only thought running through his mind being _I'm gonna puke_. He pushed himself up, ignoring the pain in his _kneeheadhandsribsstomach_.

"Stiles. _Stiles_ , _stop_ , calm down!" He was being pushed back down, told to relax. He jerked away from their grip, grunting before pulling again, causing _white hot agony_ to explode through his head as he projectile vomited through the bars of his helmet, covering himself and the stretcher in last night's take out.

Stiles grunted as he heard the people surrounding him sigh sympathetically. The anxious crowd groaned in disgust as Stiles heaved again, covering himself in vomit from his chest to his cleats. Once his stomach calmed down, Stiles was bombarded with _pain._ His ribs, his hand, his knee, his _head._ Stiles grunted as his head swam.

"Stiles? Stiles, relax, kiddo, we're gonna get you some help, okay?" Stiles couldn't respond, couldn't think, couldn't _breathe_.

He was slowly pushed to lie down on the stretcher again, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering as his head swam.

"Stiles, try and stay awake for me, okay? Try and focus on something."

But he couldn't hear them.

* * *

Before Stiles even knew he was awake he was leaning over the side of the hospital bed and heaving onto the floor. He could only focus on the blood rushing in his ears over the wet splatter of his vomit on the linoleum.

"Woah, woah buddy, c'mon Stiles, relax." He felt a hand on his back, helping him to lie back against the pillows. "Couldn't have waited for your dad, huh?"

Stiles opened his eyes and squinted up at the figure standing beside him. "Scott?"

"Hey, man, how're you feeling?" Scott smiled, "You've been out for a while."

"H-How long?" Stiles said, catching his breath.

"Um, about 6 hours? It's almost 2:30…"

Stiles eyes slid shut again as he swallowed. "Dad?"

Scott chuckled, "You really scared him, dude, he just left to go get coffee."

Stiles sighed. He moved to scratch around his IV but was stopped by a weight around his wrist.

"Oh, you, uh, you broke your fingers," Scott said, nodding towards the hand that was wrapped in a thick blue cast. Stiles groaned as he wiggled his thumb and index finger, the only ones not bound in plaster.

"What else?" Stiles asked quietly. Scott looked confused. "What's the damage?" Stiles said pointedly, trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat on the hospital room.

"Oh! Uh, well, you broke three of your fingers, you've dislocated your knee, uh, two cracked ribs and a mild to moderate concussion with four stitches in the back of your head."

"Jesus," Stiles groaned.

"And dude you were _really_ sick, man, like my mom was really worried there for a while," Scott said, not meeting his eye.

Stiles didn't have the strength to question him as he felt heat roll over him, instead he waited for Scott to elaborate.

"Um, your fever got like real high, and they just- they just couldn't get it down," Scott murmured.

Stiles took a few shallow breaths as his eyes slid shut. "Scott, I don't…"

Scott's eyes widened, "Shit, are you-"

"I don't feel good," he breathed, before his vision faded. "Get- Get your mom."

* * *

 _"Sheriff, you need to relax, okay? His fever is coming down, he should be waking up soon. You need to go home and rest."_

 _"Melissa, with all due respect, you'd have to take me out of here in a body bag."_

 _"Mom, you wouldn't leave if it were me, so why would you think the Sheriff would?"_

 _"I'm not leaving Stiles' side until he's being put in the cruiser and I'm taking him home."_

"You don't gotta talk about me like I'm not even here," he mumbled.

"Stiles? Stiles, kiddo?" the Sheriff called, crossing the room and squatting next to his son.

Stiles took shallow breaths as he tried to summon the energy to open his eyes.

"Shh, relax, Stiles, you're okay. You're gonna be okay."

"Dad?" he whispered. "Daddy, I don't feel good."

"I know, buddy, you really scared us there," he murmured affectionately.

"Scott?" he called, still not opening his eyes.

"Yeah? Yeah, buddy, I'm here," Scott said, moving closer to the bed.

"What's the damage?" he breathed, smiling slightly when he heard Scott chuckle.

"You had a heat seizure, dumbass, you almost bit through your own freakin' tongue."

Stiles sighed uncomfortably as his skin burned. He felt a hand on his forehead.

"Stiles, it's gonna be a bit uncomfortable for a while, at least until we get this fever down a bit more, but you're gonna be just fine," he heard Melissa say.

"I feel sick," he whimpered, breathing shallowly.

"I know, kiddo," she cooed, before placing what he presumed was a wet cloth on his forehead. Stiles whimpered again as he shivered, wanting to pull away.

"No, no, sweetie, just relax, it'll make you feel better," Melissa promised. "If you think you're gonna be sick just tell me."

Stiles grunted as he moved to roll over, and Melissa had a bowl underneath his chin, waiting. He felt a hand run through his hair as he heaved, knowing it was his dad.

"You're gonna be alright, Mischief, I promise," was all he heard before he passed out once again.

* * *

When the Sheriff opened his eyes he found his son staring at him. "Hey, buddy, how're you feeling?" Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek, "A bit shit, to be honest."

The Sheriff chuckled. "Yeah, I'd say so, you've been out for quite a while." He sighed, "I knew I shouldn't have let you go to school."

"Dad, you couldn't have made me stay home, I was playing in that goddamn game," Stiles laughed, letting his eyes slide shut.

"You're probably right," the Sheriff laughed.

Stiles shivered and the Sheriff knew that he was no longer cold, just scared.

"Stiles, kiddo, you're gonna be okay, you know that right?" the Sheriff said seriously.

Stiles nodded, trying to blink the fear from his eyes.

"We got you, kiddo, you'll be just fine from here on out."


	9. Chapter 9

**Little drabble I wrote years and years ago. This has literally been transferred between three different generations of my laptops and nothing was ever done with it and I found it recently and changed it from Torchwood to Teen Wolf! Don't forget to rate and review!**

"Do we really have to go to this?" Stiles groaned as he rolled over in bed and pressed his face into the pillow. "Of course we do, it's Boyd and Erica's wedding, we have to go," Derek chuckled from where he was getting dressed beside the bed. Stiles groaned again, sounding like a whiny teenager.

Derek threw Stiles' shirt at him and laughed as he pulled the shirt from his head and glared up at him, hair mussed. "Don't be angry with me, they're our friends." Stiles looked up at him, eyebrow raised. "Well, they're your friends."

Stiles rolled over again, before kicking the duvet off the bed. Derek laughed, "Put some underwear on, you'll blind someone," Derek said before throwing him a pair of boxers.

Stiles groaned before rolling out of bed and pulling on the boxers. "Why don't you wanna go? You love weddings," Derek asked, wrapping his arms around his lover. "Just a bit of an upset stomach," Stiles said quietly, "Think it was just something I ate," he murmured, turning towards Derek and burying his face in his shoulder.

Derek tutted, "Well, we have to be there for some of it, but if you want we can skip the ceremony, make an appearance at the after party and then go and spend the rest of the weekend in our hotel room?"

Stiles mulled it over, "No, we have to go, I'll be fine, I'll take something for it before we go."

"You sure?" Derek asked. Stiles nodded, before smiling a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I'll be fine."

* * *

Stiles sat in the Camaro, waiting for Derek to finish locking up. He rested a hand on his stomach as it gurgled softly. Stiles pushed his seat back as Derek sat into the large car and shoved the keys into the ignition. He took note of Stiles' hand. "We can call and cancel if you're really not feeling well, I don't mind."

"No, no. I'm fine, it's really not that bad," he said quietly, swallowing hard. Derek rubbed Stiles' knee, "Okay then, let's go."

Stiles' eyes slid shut when they got onto the road. Each time Derek glanced at him he seemed to be getting paler, hand still resting on his stomach. Derek didn't protest when Stiles rolled the window down slightly, the breeze making him shiver. "Derek," he muttered after a while. "Derek, I feel sick," he swallowed hard. "Derek, pull over, I'm gonna be sick."

Derek immediately pulled the car over and Stiles opened the door and leaned out, loosening his tie and taking shallow breaths. Derek watched him as he continued to control his breathing for another few minutes and then sat back into the car, rolling the window down completely. "Stiles?" Derek asked gingerly. "I'm fine," he murmured. "Just keep driving, are we nearly there?" Derek turned the car back on. "We're nearly there, Stiles, just hold on."

When Derek pulled into the church yard, Stiles threw open the door and ran towards the bathroom at the side of the building. Derek parked the car, strode towards the bathroom and leaned against the wall beside the door. It was a good five minutes before Stiles emerged, popping a stick of gum into his mouth. Stiles nodded towards him and made his way into the church, sitting in the back row and closing his eyes.

* * *

Stiles made it through the ceremony without gagging too often and he went straight to his room once he caught a whiff of curry at the reception, not returning until the meal was over. Stiles then made his way back down to the party when the dancing began and once everyone began to dance he slipped in as if he was never away.

The night dragged on and people eventually started to peter away to their rooms and soon it was just Scott, Allison, Erica, Boyd, a few couples left slow-dancing in the centre of the room, a group of guys and Stiles and Derek sat at the bar. Derek chuckled as a slow song started to play over the speakers and held his hand out towards Stiles, "Care to dance?" Stiles gave a small smile and took his hand.

Derek wrapped his arms around his sick lover, wincing at the heat radiating off of him. Stiles buried his head in Derek's shoulder as he hugged him close. Derek rubbed Stiles' back as Scott, Allison, Erica and Boyd made their way over towards them. "Hey," Scott laughed. "You two okay?" he asked, Allison hanging out of his arm. "He's fine," Derek whispered. "He just has a bit of a sick stomach."

Derek almost smirked as he saw Allison switch to 'doctor-mode.' "Stiles? Stiles, talk to me. When did you start to feel sick?" she questioned. Stiles murmured incoherently and buried his face even deeper into Derek's shoulder. Derek rubbed his back soothingly, "Allison, he's fine, we can handle it." Allison placed his hand on the back of Stiles' neck, frowning at the temperature.

By now, everyone except Boyd's guy friends had left to go to bed. Stiles groaned into Derek's neck. "Derek..." Derek rubbed his shoulder. "You're okay, Stiles..." Stiles groaned quietly before he gagged, pulled away from Derek and stumbling towards the bathroom. Derek ran after him, quickly followed by Scott, Allison, Erica and Boyd.

Derek swung the door open and Scott and Boyd ran in after him, followed by Erica and Allison. "You can't be in here," Derek smirked. "It's my wedding," Erica said, glaring at him. Derek held up his hands in mock surrender, "I'm not complaining."

"Stiles?" Scott called. "Stiles, you okay?" There was a groan from one of the stalls, quickly followed by a retch. Derek pulled the door to the stall open and saw Stiles sitting on the floor, looking up at Derek with pitiful eyes.

"I think it's time we went to bed, huh?" Derek murmured, smiling as Stiles took his proffered hand. "We'll give you something to settle your stomach and we'll go to sleep," he whispered soothingly into Stiles' ear.

Stiles moaned as his stomach flipped. Derek wrapped his arm around his waist and helped him out of the bathroom and towards the elevator, the others following closely behind.

Once in their hotel room, Derek quickly lay Stiles down on the large bed where he promptly curled up in a ball. Allison crossed the room and felt his forehead.

"Guys, it's your wedding night, go and have fun. I promise, if something happens, I'll call you," Derek laughed, "I'm gonna give him some Tylenol and a trash can and he'll be fine in the morning."

Stiles took the cup of water and pills from Derek, downing them with a wince.

"See, he'll be fine, go, go and jump around with your friends," Derek ordered.

"Alright, but if anything happens, and I mean anything, we want to hear about it," Erica said warningly.

"Alright, alright, I promise, you have a good night now," Derek said with a smirk before he slammed the door in his Beta's face.

Derek then shed his suit and quickly climbed into bed beside Stiles, who had already begun to doze. "Feel better, baby," he muttered.

* * *

Derek woke up to find a space where Stiles should have been and one of the blankets missing. Derek sat up slowly, knowing exactly where Stiles was judging by the sounds coming from the hotel bathroom. "Stiles?" he called.

"Don't come in," he choked, before he turned back towards the toilet to lose more of his stomach contents.

"You need anything?" Derek called, despite knowing that Stiles would just want to be alone until he was ready to come out.

Stiles was sick again before he called out "No! J-Just go back to bed."

Derek lay back down once more, waiting for Stiles to be finished.

* * *

It was ten more minutes before Stiles had the strength to pull himself off the floor and back to bed, smelling of sweat and toothpaste. He quickly buried his face into Derek's shoulder as his stomach gurgled.

"How're you feeling now, baby?" Derek mumbled into his arm, wrapping his arms around him.

"I-I think I'm over the worst of it now," Stiles said quietly.

Derek hummed, "Hope you feel better soon."


	10. Chapter 10

This is absolute shit that I wrote based on the Cian Twomey video "Night Out" which I suggest you all watch because its fckin hilarious. I don't do it justice but hey I haven't uploaded in months.

Lydia Martin sighed when she heard keys in the door of their apartment, glancing at the clock before frowning angrily. She made her way towards the door as Stiles stumbled in, looking dishevelled and woozy.

"Hello, sweet cheeks!" he exclaimed, closing the door behind him.

"Stiles, its 4am, where were you?" she asked angrily.

Stiles gave her a strange look. "I was out poppin' bitches on the dance floor, where else would I be?" he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He strolled past her and made his way into the kitchen. "D'ya think we have anything nice to eat?" he grumbled, opening the fridge.

Lydia ignored him. "Stiles, were you out clubbing?"

Stiles plucked a can of whipped cream from the fridge door. "What?" he asked, more interested in shaking the can than talking to his girlfriend.

Lydia huffed. "Were you out clubbing?" she repeated.

Stiles smirked. "You bet your ass I was out clubbing," he said before spraying the cream messily into his mouth, grunting as pieces of it landed around his mouth and down his wrist.

"That went a lot better in my head," he murmured. "I need a napkin."

Stiles wiped his face on a cloth before drunkenly looking down at the cream on his hands. He held his arm out to Lydia. "Do you want any of this before I throw it away?"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "No, thanks, I'm okay."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Your loss."

Stiles made a vague swipe at his hand before a dollop of cream landed on the kitchen floor. He stumbled as he bent over to wipe it up, exclaiming "Fuck!" as he slid on the tiled floor and hit his head on the freezer.

Lydia tried to have a reasonable conversation. "Stiles, have you been drinking?"

Stiles stood up and looked at her. "No."

"Are you su-?"

He cut her off. "I'm gonna get sick," he mumbled before stumbling towards the bathroom. Lydia waited a moment as Stiles retched before following him in. Stiles was sat in front of the toilet, vomit down the front of his shirt. "I wish I didn't have any of that cream," he mumbled to himself.

"It was probably all the alcohol you had, Stiles," Lydia accused.

Stiles looked up at her, indignant, "I didn't have any alcohol!"

"Don't lie. You know you had too much to drink and here you are, and you have fucking work at _8am_."

Stiles passively waved her off before wiping his mouth on his hand.

"You know you have work in three hours?"

"Suck. My. Tits." he said, getting annoyed.

Lydia rolled her eyes again as he stumbled backwards and landed on the floor. "I'm feeble!" he whined.

Lydia grimaced as Stiles landed dangerously close to the laundry pile. "Your underwear is on the floor."

Stiles pulled the underwear towards him and giving it a sniff before quickly.

"Yep. That's me."

Stiles stumbled upwards and scratched his chest. "Shall we take a bath?"

"No, Stiles, you can get a shower in like, two hours-"

"I have a bath bomb."

"No."

Stiles huffed before pushing past her and stumbling out the door, grunting as he landed on the floor in the hallway.

"Stiles?"

Stiles giggled to himself as he rolled his body. "Look, I'm a caterpillar!"

"Stiles, go to bed!"

Stiles looked up at her with a glare. "Do you have anything better to be doing with your life?"

Lydia huffed. "No. I don't. Now go to bed."

"Fuck _off_ ," he grunted as he stood up and clumsily made his way towards the kitchen. Lydia rolled her eyes and marched into the bedroom to put on her pyjamas.

When she returned she found Stiles eating cereal from the box as he reclined on the sofa.

"Stiles," she pleaded.

"What?"

"You have work in the morning."

"Fuck off and stop trying to ruin my ambiance!" he exclaimed.

"Stiles."

"What?"

"Go to bed."

" _Fuck off_!"

"How many drinks did you have tonight?"

Stiles glared at her before shoving a handful of cereal in his mouth. "Enough," he answered, voice muffled.

It took another 15 minutes to convince Stiles to go into the bedroom where he immediately groaned. "Oh, for fucks sake."

Lydia shook her head at the mess on Stiles' side of the bed. "You should've cleaned off the bed before you left."

"Well I wasn't thinking about that was I?"

"What were you thinking about?"

"Girls," he blinked before practically swan diving into the mess on the bed.

"Stiles, you have to clean off the bed!"

Stiles' head popped up from the mess. "Will you tuck me in?"

"No, I won't tuck you in."

"Will you get me some water?"

"Yes, I'll get you some water."

"Thank you."

When Lydia came back in, Stiles was under the covers and making grabby hands for the water bottle. "The room is spinning," he grunted.

"If you're gonna get sick, go to the bathroom."

"I'm not gonna get sick."

"Go to the bathroom."

"I'm not gonna get sick."

"Go to the bathroom _now_."

Stiles shoved his bare leg out from underneath the covers. "I'm having a hot flush!"

Lydia sighed before sitting down beside him. "Did you have fun tonight?"

"Yeah. They were playing Beyoncé, Destiny's Child era," he said, his eyes sliding shut as he hummed, "This is one thing that got me-"

"That's Amerie, Stiles, not Destiny's Child. You shouldn't have even went."

"Say my name. Say my name," he sang sleepily.

"Is that the only song you know?" Lydia asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah."

Stiles pulled the bottle towards him and attempted to drink without sitting up.

"That's my water bottle. Don't-" Lydia began.

Stiles gasped as he split water down his chin and onto his chest. " _Shit_! _Darling_!" Lydia rolled her eyes once again and pulled the bottle away from him.

"Can you turn off the light?" he whimpered.

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna get sick," he mumbled to himself.

"Go to the bathroom!"

"Just turn off the light. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"Pray for me."


	11. Chapter 11

Melissa McCall stood in her kitchen, preparing dinner for her eight-year-old son and his best friend. She smiled softly as she listened to the boys shout and laugh as they played.

A few minutes passed before there was a cry from outside. "Mommy!"

Melissa was out the door before she even realised what she was doing. "Mommy! It's Stiles! He- He said he can't breathe!" Scott wailed as he watched his best friend sit hunched over pressed against the garden fence, gasping for breath.

Melissa pulled Scott away and quickly knelt in front of the boy. "Stiles? Stiles, what's the matter baby? What's wrong?"

Stiles' eyes were screwed shut as he curled around himself. "I-I can't-" he gasped.

"Okay. Okay, shh, you're okay, you're gonna be fine, Stiles. Try and follow me, okay? Breathe in…" Melissa took a deep breath in and waited for Stiles to attempt the same.

Melissa listened as Stiles shuddered a breath in before he grunted and returned to hyperventilating. "I can't- I- I- can't," he whimpered, curling around himself even more.

"Shh, Stiles, it's okay, that's good, that was so good. Try it again for me, okay? Big breath in…" Melissa squeezed his arm as he sucked a deep breath in, wincing as his chest constricted.

"Hold it as long as you can, Stiles, until you just can't hold it anymore. You're doing so, so good for me," she soothed.

Stiles clamped his lips shut as his face scrunched up, trying with everything he had to hold his breath before he sobbed loudly and the air burst out of him.

"That was so good, honey. Now try it again for me. Try and hold it for even longer."

Stiles whimpered as his throat constricted and he made a choking sound.

"Come on, Stiles, you're nearly there, you're okay, honey," Melissa hummed, squeezing his hand.

It took a few more minutes of Stiles gasping, Melissa coaxing and Scott sucking his thumb worriedly before Stiles' breathing evened out.

Melissa rubbed his bare knee as he rested his head on his arms.

"That was so good, Stiles, well done," she murmured as he sniffled. "How're you feeling?" she asked quietly.

"M'tired," he mumbled, "a-and my tummy hurts."

"Do you feel like you're gonna throw up?" she questioned.

Stiles thought about it for a moment before shrugging.

"You'll be fine," Melissa soothed, "You just need to rest and relax for a bit."

Stiles still didn't look up as he tried to keep his breath even.

"I think we'll go inside and put on a movie," she announced. "We can lay on the couch until dinner is ready." Stiles looked up tiredly from his spot against the fence, watching her for a moment before taking her outstretched hand.

Scott followed them inside and quickly pounded up the stairs as Melissa helped Stiles get settled on the couch. It took a few moments of ruffling from upstairs before Scott thundered down the stairs again, dragging his Power Rangers bedspread behind him and hauling it up onto the couch.

Melissa watched as Stiles smiled softly before switching on a movie and tucking both boys in on either end of the sofa.

"If you need me I'll be in the kitchen," she called softly.

Melissa opened the front door when she heard the knock from the other side to reveal the town's Sheriff, Noah Stilinski.

Before she could speak, he cut her off. "Melissa, I'm so sorry I'm late, I got held up at the station and then my phone-"

"Noah! Noah, it's fine," she laughed. "They're in the living room, they're fine."

The Sheriff sighed bashfully. "You're an angel, Melissa McCall, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Constantly," she laughed, before her face dropped slightly.

The Sheriff looked at her in slight alarm. "Everything okay?"

Melissa bit her lip. "Noah, there was an- an incident today."

Noah grimaced. "Has he been kicking again? I don't know where he picked that up-"

"No, no, nothing like that," she reassured. "This- This wasn't his fault."

Noah looked confused. Melissa nodded towards the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow her.

When he sat down, Melissa looked as if she was struggling to word what she wanted to say.

"Noah," she began carefully, "has Stiles ever shown signs of- of anxiety?"

Noah eyed her suspiciously. "Well, like occasionally he gets worried about a test in school or something. Why?"

Melissa sat with a pained expression on her face. "Well, the boys were playing in the backyard today, and Scott called me outside…" she paused, as if she didn't know how she was going to phrase her words. "I think Stiles was having a panic attack."

Noah looked confused. "A panic attack? Are you sure? What would have caused it?"

"Noah, you need to remember that this boy has just lost his mother. Chances are, if it was a panic attack, that he was just over thinking things. He just needs time to cope with the fact that he's- he's never going to see her again." Melissa said, not meeting the Sheriff's eye.

Noah chewed his lip. "Sometimes, I- I wonder if he understands it all. Like, he's a smart kid but he's only ever lost a goldfish before this."

Melissa took a deep breath before getting up to switch on the coffee machine. "Look, Stiles is a good, strong kid. It was probably a one-off kind of thing that you shouldn't worry about. But I'd keep an eye on him for a while, just to be on the safe side."

"Stiles? Stiles, come on, buddy, it's time to wake up."

Stiles opened up his eyes tiredly to blink at his father, who was crouched in front of him with a smile on his face.

"Hey, buddy," Noah whispered, trying not to wake Scott on the other end of the sofa.

"Hi, Duddy," Stiles mumbled.

"You ready to go home?"

Stiles screwed his eyes shut again. "M'tired…" he whined.

Noah smirked before putting his arms underneath Stiles' armpits and hauling his upwards. "C'mon, kiddo, Melissa said you slept right through dinner, what's say we grab something on the way home?"

Stiles just mumbled tiredly, burying himself in his father's neck.

The Sheriff nodded his thanks to Melissa as he left, Stiles clutched to his chest. "You want some pizza?"

It was three weeks later when there was a knock on the Sheriff's door. "Beacon Hills Elementary on line 2, Sheriff."

Noah picked up the phone quickly, dropping his files onto his desk. "Sheriff Stilinski," he greeted.

"Hey, Sheriff, it's Mrs Locke over here at Beacon Hills Elementary, we've, uh, we've got your son, uh, Me, Meech-"

"Stiles, just called him Stiles," the Sheriff said quickly.

"Right. Well, we've got Stiles here, and there, uh, there's been a bit of an incident at recess just now…"

"What's happened?" he asked, despite the fact that he was almost certain what it was as he searched for his keys.

"He, uh, he seemed to have some trouble breathing earlier. We're not really sure what happened. He seems to be fine though, I have him here with me."

Noah sighed. "Tell him I'll be there in 20 minutes," he said before dragging on his jacket.

"Clark! I gotta go pick up Stiles, I'll be back tomorrow!" he yelled before closing the station door behind him.

Looking through the window into the school's office, the Sheriff could tell how bad Stiles was feeling from how still the boy sat. Stiles was clearly putting effort into keeping his limbs in one spot, as if movement would exhaust him more.

The Sheriff quickly greeted the secretary at the front desk and signed his son out, before moving towards his boy, who was being swallowed by the enormous armchair he was curled up in.

"Hey, kiddo," the Sheriff said quietly. Stiles' lip twitched as he blinked tiredly up at his father.

The Sheriff tried again. "What happened out there?" Stiles just stared at him before he quickly uncurled himself and threw up onto the floor in front of him.

The Sheriff tutted sympathetically before hugging him close. "It's okay," he soothed. "You've just eaten lunch, it's okay, it's just shock..." he hummed, rubbing his back as he trembled.

"Is he alright?" the secretary asked worriedly, eyeing the pair.

"He's fine, aren't you, buddy?" he asked cheerfully, trying to calm his boy down. Stiles just buried himself deeper into his father's chest.

"I think we'll just go home and have a nap, sound good?" the Sheriff tried.

Stiles just nodded, not lifting his head.

The Sheriff turned to the secretary. "Any idea what happened?"

The girl chewed her lip. "The teacher on playground duty just came in with him and a friend who just kept shouting that he couldn't breathe."

Noah smirked. "Yeah, that'd be Scott. Where's he now?"

"I sent him back to class."

Noah sighed irritability. "If this happens again, I want Scott beside him at all times. They're good for each other."

The girl nodded, wide eyed. "Yes s-sir."

The Sheriff nodded once more before he turned and walked out the door, his eight year old son held close to his chest.

The name 'Stiles' was said over a hundred times a day and by over a dozen different people on a regular weekend in the Beacon Hills Sheriff station. Not necessarily to scold the boy, but to remind the ADHD-riddled kid to think about what he was doing, and to consider whether or not he was disrupting the goings on.

Not much thought was put into it as 'Stiles' was called in the middle of a conversation between two deputies, to remind the boy that counting the ceiling tiles was okay, but doing it aloud and in Polish was not.

It was a rainy Saturday when the Sheriff blinked confusedly.

"Stiles?"

He usually never needed to check on the boy, primarily because he always made himself known.

The sounds of a regular sheriff's station greeted him, which only made him more suspicious. The Sheriff stood up from where he was looking over a file with a deputy and glanced at the door to his office.

There was no humming, no tapping, no muttering, no _thump thump thump_ as he absentmindedly kicked the sofa he sat on. No shadow moving back and forth behind the window as he jumped around, no sound effects to his imaginary light saber battles, no crash as he knocked the pile of books over as he did every weekend.

The Sheriff made his way towards the door nervously, not wanting to know why his son was so quiet. He slowly opened the door to reveal a gasping Stiles pressing himself into the corner between the bookshelf and the sofa.

"Stiles!" he exclaimed as he quickly crossed the room to crouch in front of his son. "Stiles, what's the matter, buddy?"

Stiles eyes were screwed shut as he choked. "I- I can't-"

The Sheriff tried not to panic. "I-It's okay, Stiles, it's okay you don't have to, just relax."

"I-I want-" he grunted before his breathing quickened again.

"What is it, kiddo, what do you need?" the Sheriff asked quickly, willing to do anything to get his boy to _just breathe_.

"I- I want M-Mommy-"

The Sheriff stopped. Of course he did. He was eight years old, what else would he want? "Mommy's not here right now, kiddo, but I am, I'm here."

"I can't- Daddy, I can't breathe," he shuddered.

The Sheriff pulled Stiles' hand from where it was fisted in his shirt and held it close, blowing air into it, something that always helped to calm a restless Stiles down.

"Stiles, I need you to do me a favour, okay buddy? I want you to try and breathe with me." The Sheriff bit his lip before placing his son's hand on his chest and taking a dramatic breath inward, holding it and letting it go into his son's fist.

"Follow me, buddy, just try it," he coaxed.

Stiles' eyes stayed screwed shut before he shuddered in a breath and held it, his leg jumping with exertion before he made a small choking sound and the air rushed out of him, causing him to return to hyperventilating.

"That was so good, buddy," Noah hummed, blowing into his fist again. "Again."

Stiles grunted before sucking in another breath and clamping his free hand over his mouth, trying desperately to hold it for as long as he could. The Sheriff smiled at him when he cracked his eyes open before he released a dry sob and let the air go.

They continued this until Stiles was half asleep, his breaths coming in little hiccups as his eyes slid shut.

The Sheriff pulled him upwards and lay him on the couch, draping his jacket over the boy as he sniffled.

"Mommy's not here, kiddo, but you still got me," he murmured, closing the door to his office gently, sternly ordering his deputies to keep the noise down.


	12. Chapter 12

So ten months later and I come back with a teeny one shot that was originally posted as a Spiderman fic. I can't promise another chapter any time soon, I've lost the inspiration so to speak. So if any of you guys have any prompts or ideas, I'll try and give it a go. I don't want to finish this, it's something I love so drop me a review or PM if you have any prompts for this fic xoxo

"Hey, are you okay? You're not looking too good…" Scott McCall asked his best friend, Stiles Stilinski, as he sat in an empty classroom doing his homework.

Stiles swallowed thickly before plastering on a particularly fake-looking smile.

"I'm fine, Scott, why'd you ask?" Stiles said, clearing his throat before pulling his hoodie even tighter around him.

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Well for starters, you're paler than a damn ghost, even more so than usual. You're shivering, even though its 65 degrees out, and I _know_ you, Stiles, and I know when you're sick but too stubborn to admit it."

"I'm not sick…" Stiles said, feigning surprise at the accusation.

"Oh yeah?" Scott asked with a smirk, "What did you have for dinner last night?"

Stiles swallowed harshly as he paled.

"Um… uh… Chinese food," he mumbled.

"Ooh, nice, we had to have sushi again, all that raw fish-"

Scott, stop," Stiles mumbled, an arm snaking around his abdomen.

"But I thought you weren't sick?" Scott asked innocently.

"I'm not, but…"

"Hey, completely unrelated topic here, you remember when we were nine, and you pushed me off of the slide in the park?"

Stiles' eyes widened as he realized what he was doing.

"And I cut my knee open," he continued, "and then a couple of days later it got infected?"

Stiles fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.

"And then that led to blood poisoning? And I almost died? Do you remember that, Stiles?"

"Uh-huh…" he mumbled, jaw clenched as his forehead glistened with sweat.

"Do you remember how it looked before I went into the hospital? With those red lines of infected blood trailing up and down my leg?"

Stiles didn't reply.

"All that black blood caked around the open cut… And all that pus-"

"God, I hate you," Stiles mumbled, hand shooting to his mouth as he launched himself from his chair and to the bathroom across the hall.

"I told you you were sick!" Scott called after him, pulling his phone out to call the Sheriff.


End file.
